


Gilt and Ashes

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me, President Lannister," Joanna says as she unpins her hair. "How do you intend to celebrate your inauguration, now that the election parties are over?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gilt and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tywinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tywinning/gifts).



> For the lovely Lauren - modern OTP smut, for her birthday <3  
> (Modern Westeros, just so we're clear)

Joanna smokes cigarettes through an elegant holder of rich red-brown mahogany chased with gold. They're slim, and the smoke spirals delicately into the air, and she always makes certain to pout just a little more than is necessary as she takes a draw when Tywin is in the room. 

It drives him mad when she smokes, and she knows it - she doesn't fully understand why, no more than she understands why she finds it so fascinating to see  _him_ smoke. For her it's less his mouth and more his hands, the way his long fingers hold the narrow cigars he favours. Tywin's hands are one of the things Joanna likes best about him, those hands that hold cigars for him to smoke, gifts for him to give her, hands that hold  _her._

Smoking is bad for them, Joanna knows, but so are their other habits, so who cares?

 

* * *

 

"Tell me, President Lannister," Joanna says as she unpins her hair. "How do you intend to celebrate your inauguration, now that the election parties are over?"

His tie is crimson, patterned with whisper-fine gold stripes, and she watches his reflection as he loosens it with economic tugs, two fingers caught behind the knot and a crystal tumbler of tawny-gold scotch over two ice cubes in his other hand. His hair gleams a different sort of gold, no richer but perhaps worth more all the same, and Joanna likes that. Her own hair gleams with just as much wealth, and she sighs when he comes to stand behind her, setting his hands to work in stroking over her scalp in slow, firm circles with the very tips of his fingers.

"My sister is planning all kinds of festivities at the Rock," he murmurs, a low rumble that hums through her chest. Joanna leans back into his touch as he details, all sardonicism and bite, the celebrations Genna was organising for his triumphant homecoming. Joanna is delighted, of course, that Tywin won - he will be an excellent president, she's certain of it - and she is more looking forward to being First Lady than is probably tasteful, but she's a  _Lannister._ She doesn't have to be  _tasteful._

Tywin brushes out her hair and whispers plans, and then he removes the heavy rope of twisted seed pearls from around her neck and offers her his hands.

"I can't wait to redecorate on Aegon's Hill," he says as he turns her to face him, hands on her hips warm through the filmy silk of her dress. He watches as if fascinated when she reaches up to unknot his tie and pull it off, and continues to watch as, slowly, she unbuttons his waistcoat and his shirt. "I can't even  _begin_ to imagine how garish Aerys' tastes ran."

Joanna smiles and says nothing, sinking to her knees as he shrugs out of his jacket and vest and shirt. His arms are lean, his chest and stomach firm, and he gleams like bronze in the lamplight, tan skin and golden hair, like a lion in sunlight.

He says nothing as she undoes his belt and tugs it through the loops, or when she unbuttons his trousers and pulls them and his underpants to his knees. He's not hard yet, but she knows it won't take much - for her, it never does. She imagines that, for the girls he used to take out before she agreed to go on a date with him (not until he was elected to Parliament, and she had no interest in sleeping with him until he'd been appointed to Cabinet, even if it had only been a junior ministry at first), it had taken a lot more to break his control, but Joanna knows what she's doing. She knows Tywin inside out.

She uses her left hand, because the catch of the light on her engagement and eternity rings always distracts him, and she strokes him slowly. He likes a firm grip and an even rhythm, and she smiles as he hardens between her fingers, digs her nails into the muscle of his thigh to make him hiss and twist a hand into her hair the way she likes. She lifts her hand to his hip, then, and smiles once more when he covers it with his own, pressing her fingers into his skin as she opens his mouth to suck his cock.

It doesn't take long. She's too good for that, and she's been keeping this particular treat back for weeks now, relieving his mounting stress every way but this, his favourite, to drive him to do more, to do  _better._  He's earned her red-painted lips stretching around his cock, though, so she takes him deep into her throat and smiles when he comes.

Once that's done, and she's wiped a smear from the corner of her mouth, he offers her his hands again, helps her to her feet, and guides her to the bed. She takes a mint from the enamelled trinket box on her nightstand and sucks on that as she undresses, setting her shoes neatly just under the bed and tossing her five-thousand-dollar dress carelessly on the floor. It's high-necked and low-backed and black that shines red, a lovely foil for the pearls she wore on her neck and wrists, and for the gold of her hair, and she doesn't like it much but the PR team said it was perfect for the celebrations.

Tywin likes what she chose to wear beneath more, she can see that plain as day when she slinks into bed beside him in a backless slip in her favourite shade of green. She prefers green to red, despite Tywin's own preferences, and she can see that it doesn't worry him unduly tonight. He's riding the high of having won the election, and he's riding the high of finally having  _her_ after so many weeks of being pushed away. 

"Tell me," he says, settling against the pillows and watching her climb into his lap. "When were you planning on telling me about the baby?"

She can't help but smile - she's kept the pregnancy a secret for almost four months, because she hasn't started to show yet, at least not that anyone but Tywin would notice, and he's been so wrapped up in the campaign that of course he  _hasn't_ noticed.

"Whenever you deigned to notice," she says airily, pulling her slip over her head and laughing when his hands come up to cup her breasts as soon as they're exposed. "What a way to mark your first year in office, hmm?"

He smiles at that, at least as much as Tywin ever smiles at being teased, and leans up to kiss her. She lets him, tastes whiskey and cigar smoke and pride on his tongue, and then she pushes him back down, holding him down by the wrists and wishing she'd thought to bring the long pink ribbons (the ones she keeps in the bottom drawer of her dressing table, the ones they don't speak about, the ones they use twice a month on average) with her to bed.

He hisses again, just as she likes, when she sinks her teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder - low enough that it won't be seen under his shirt collar but high enough that he'll feel the bruise and think of her every time he moves his head. Joanna loves to mark Tywin, even though he'd never let himself do the same to her. She likes to leave him with reminders that he belongs to  _her,_ and that while he might look at other women, she has claws to claim what's hers if he dares to stray.

He wouldn't dare, of course, and she knows it, but that doesn't mean she can't enjoy staking her claim on him all the same.

She keeps an eye on the way his hands fist and clench in the sheets under them, because she can't see his face when he has his head tipped back like that and she's scraping her teeth across his stomach, over shifting, rippling muscles from his last rib to his hipbone. He growls - always growls, never anything as soft as a moan or a whimper - and pulls her up for a kiss, hissing when she bites his lip. He's so careful of her that even now, even when he's hard again and touching her breasts the way he likes, slipping his hand between her legs to touch her count with firm, knowing fingers.

Joanna likes sex with Tywin - she never really had any interest in it before him, but he always seems to know just how to make her squirm, and he's always been good at making sure she comes first, which is a rarity, according to the gossip she cultivates like she does her succulents.

"Later on," she says as he traces her breastbone with the tip of his tongue, "you can put your tongue to better use."

He huffs a laugh against her skin, sets the barest edge of his teeth to her nipple, and then bites down hard against the inside of her breast when she sinks down onto his cock, and it feels  _good._ The fullness of him inside her is something she relishes, almost as much as she enjoys watching him lose control, cheeks flushed and hair clinging damp to his temples. His eyes are open, but only just, and she rocks against his fingers and his cock.

"President Lannister," she sighs, the slowly rolling burn of orgasm building low in her stomach. "I  _love_ how that sounds."

His arm slips around her waist and pulls her closer, and he kisses her as she comes, holds her tight as he follows her, and she leans her head on his shoulder while they catch their breath.

He watches her climb off him with a raised eyebrow, and smiled when she reached for her cigarette case. He lifted the lid on the tin of cigars on his nightstand, and offered her his lighter once he'd settled back against the pillows. It's practically a ritual now, to light up after sex and discuss what to do next - and what discussions there are to be had tonight.

Smoking is bad for them, Joanna knows, but so are their other habits, so who cares?


End file.
